Tallente yielded to an uncontrollable impulse. He walked rather
abruptly up Clarges Street, past his rooms, and paid a curious little
visit, almost a pilgrimage, to the closed house in Charles Street. It
seemed to him that those drawn blinds, the dead-looking windows, the
smokeless chimneys typified in melancholy fashion the empty chambers in
his own heart. Weeks had passed now and no word had come from Jane. He
pictured her still smarting under the sting of his brutal words. Some
of his phrases came back to his mind and he shivered with remorse. If
only--He started. It seemed for a moment as though history were about
to repeat itself. A great limousine had stolen up to the kerbstone and
a woman in evening dress was leaning out.
"Mr. Tallente," she called out, "do come and speak to me, please."
Tallente approached at once. In the dim light his heart gave a little
throb. He peered forward. The woman laughed musically. "I do believe
that you have forgotten me," she said, "I am Alice Mountgarron--Jane's
sister. I saw you there and I couldn't help stopping for a moment.
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